Rule #2: Quit Insisting You're Right -- Because You're Not!

A woman approached my desk and asked for a book called Two Patriot Generals.

I thought to myself that it was a lame title, and one I was not familiar with, so I went fishing around in my catalog and at Amazon. No hits.

She was positive it was called Two Patriot Generals, though she was not sure whether it was Two, Too, or To. There was no way she was wrong about the words Patriot and Generals, though. She wrote it down!

Still no help.

She couldn't remember what it was about or who wrote it, for she heard about it on a radio show and not much was shared about the book.

WHY, pray tell, did it inspire you to seek it out, then?!

No hits were made with "Patriot Generals" in my search terms either, but a curious title popped up on Amazon called Young Patriots, about Madison and Hamilton, and the US Constitution.

I can see how that would be so hard to remember, being the highly forgettable subject matter of the Constitution and all.

She said she must have blocked out the word "young" from the title because everyone was young back then.

They were? Even the old people were young? Because in the late 1700s, people only lived to be about 20, and then they died of young age, right? It's redundant to call them "young" patriots, because back then, everyone was young.

Right. Good excuse.

Where "generals" came from, I don't know. Alexander Hamilton never made general and James Madison had very little military experience. She just made that up.

Thankfully Amazon was able to decipher this woman's insistence on the wrong title of a book. I have never doubted that Amazon is smarter than me, but I just never knew it could make sense of nonsense.


Another woman paid a visit to our library tonight and asked me for the book Little Hurricanes. My search again rendered zip.

Long story made short is that she was in two weeks earlier and found the book, but didn't want it at the time. She did not write the title down, but was absolutely certain of two things: the cover had a picture of the ocean on it, and the word "little" was in the title. While she wasn't absolutely certain the title contained "hurricanes," she was in the 90 percentile range of certainty. However, she had no clue what it was about, who wrote it, or whether it was a newer book or an older book.

Uh-huh. I suspected it might be Little Earthquakes, but when I showed her this book, she insisted it was not right because the cover should have had an ocean on it.

No explanation about how books are routinely published with different covers would persuade her to let go of her insistence that the book had an ocean on the cover, or the fact that it almost certainly had "hurricanes" in the title along with the word she was 100% sure of, "little."

I showed her the search results in my catalog, the results I Googled, and the results in Amazon. Nothing! If Amazon can't figure it out, you're wrong, bitch!

Finally she admitted she might be wrong about the word "hurricanes." She was now only sure that the book had an ocean on the cover and the title contained the word "little."

Since we don't yet classify books based on their color or cover art, I had but one option.

Little.

For a word that means such a small amount, it's amazing to know just how many pieces of material our library alone owns which contain that word.

1,800 items.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Then she admitted that maybe she should do some of her own research on her own time.

I know damn well she was thinking of Little Earthquakes, but that's one thing she's going to have to figure out on her own, after hours and hours of sifting through our 1,800 items with the word "little" in the title.

Then again, since the cover of that book was not issued with a picture of the ocean on it, she might never admit she was wrong about all of it. Nor will she ever read the book she seeks.

My only consolation is that it will probably drive her completely nuts.

And that gives me a little earthquakes of pleasure.

Rule #1: Do Not Touch the Librarian

He completely creeps me out with all his religious tattoos up and down his arms, the pop-bottle glasses, the straw hat, and sly way he seems to emphasize his southern drawl. Once you cross the Mason-Dixon line, chewing on toothpicks and wearing a fringy, suede vest makes you a bit laughable here in these parts.

He is not charming. He is not sexy. I wish he’d leave me alone.

Yet, he frequents the library often and always makes a point of visiting with me.

Often there is nowhere to run.

It becomes increasingly difficult to hide my horror when I see him walk in the door, though I try to be civilized and professional.

He always asks me out for coffee. I tell him I don’t drink coffee. He then asks me out for whatever I drink.

I have come very close to giving up all beverages because of him.

Instead I explain that my boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate such a meeting.

He smiles sinisterly and says that his wife would not either, but as long as we behave, there is no harm.

Vomit. Bile. Last week’s digested meals. Bits of my own broken down digestive tract. Chunks of my reproductive system self destructing and rising in the eruption of insides wanting to become outsides.

The misbehavior I am inspired with when he is around is not the kind he’s thinking of, unless he’s imagining himself rolled up in an area rug and run over with a bulldozer before being buried semi-alive in a shallow grave somewhere near a fire ant hill.

I withdraw when he’s near. I pull my hands off the desk and push my chair back, keeping my distance because whenever he comes in, he tries to touch me. Not in a molesting way, but in an overtly desperate need to make contact way. It bothers me. The contact doesn’t bother me, but I follow his eyes, and I watch his behavior because he baits me to expose a part of myself that he can touch, and that bothers me. It’s the manipulation and it’s the fact that he thinks he has some kind of right to touch me.

He asks for books on blackjack tournaments, which is a creature unknown to me. Poker, yes. Blackjack -- never thought it could turn into a tournament.

This requires me to take my hands out of my lap, move forward a bit, and use the mouse and keyboard. He watches my hands move up to the desk and he stares openly at the movements.

We have no material on blackjack tournaments and strategy guides to help you win them. I tell him I cannot find any in existence, but the truth is I’m not looking all that hard because each time I move my hand to mouse something, his eyes follow and it creeps me out more.

He’s going to touch my hand, I can just tell.

My arm twitches at the thought. I look around for another patron, another staff member, anyone I can make eye contact with and somehow indicate that I need to be rescued, but no one is nearby.

He says, “Now that’s just the purtiest ring you got there,” and before I can yank my hand away, he’s holding it in both of his, turning my ring so that the ruby faces him.

I thank him coldly and pull my hand away.

He seems a little bit shocked at my shortness and dislike of his handling. He then thanks me for my help, accepts that there are no books on the topic he is asking about (as if he never really cared anyway), and bids me farewell.

If he wasn’t a foot shorter than me and in his late 50s or early 60s, I’d be concerned that he might be a serial killer or other dangerous deviant.

Clearly he has a hand fetish.

Then again, if he catches me wandering around the library without my protective desk between us, he will touch my shoulder, my back or any part of me that is within reach.

It really creeps me out.

Sometimes he sings to me. This is easy enough to curtail since it is a library.

He’s invited me to his many performances at nursing homes around the area, where he plays gospel songs for the residents. I think that if he and I were in a place where death is a fairly common occurrence, it would inspire me.

How many ways can one murder another with an acoustic guitar?

On that pleasant though, I shall venture off into dreamland.

...strangulation with guitar strings...impaled with fretboard...beat about the head with entire instrument...zzzzzzz...